


An Assassin's Pincurls

by littlemissvincentvega



Category: Kill Bill (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hair Brushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissvincentvega/pseuds/littlemissvincentvega





	An Assassin's Pincurls

Just as you’re taking the last rusty bobbypin from your hair and drop it on the couch in front of you, the sound of Budd clearing his throat echoes from across his trailer. It’s late morning and you’re just taking out your pincurls, something you do most nights-- gotta look cute for your man, right? It’s fun for both of you. Besides, he likes having your hair all pretty so he can mess it up, tug on it when he’s fucking you from behind. Ruffle it up when you’re sucking him off. The possibilities are endless, but let’s not fall down that rabbithole.

You look over and see him standing in the doorway to the living space where the kitchen & couch are, shirtless with his jeans on. No socks, though he’s wearing his belt. The leather is a little cracked from how much he’s worn the damn thing, but it matches him-- old, run-down. But **safe**, if that even makes sense. Lived-in.

“You, uh, brushin’ that sweet hair’a yours, sweet thing?” he asks, bringing his hand up to itch his greasy scalp.

Smiling, you barely acknowledge him with your eyes, instead looking around for your hairbrush... it’s probably gotten wedged between the couch cushions again. “Mhm,” you hum, patting about for the brush.

“Lost it again, huh?”

“Yeah,” you reply, quiet with concentration. It’s got to be here **somewhere**. “Oh, found it.” With an accomplished grin, you tug the brush out from between the back of the couch and the cushion, where it had fallen down. You’d probably sat on it and shoved it there by accident. _“Ass like a forklift,”_ Budd always said.

He saunters over to you, throwing a sluggish, tattooed arm around your shoulders, and admires you in the reflection of the mirror. A dusty old thing, but as long as you could _kind of _see yourself, it didn’t matter. It was Budd’s trailer, not the fucking high school prom. In short, the little mirror was useful enough that you could brush your hair in it. “You gotta clean that thing,” he mumbles, taking the hairbrush off of you and patting his lap. “Sit?”

You oblige, perching yourself into his lap and practically melting at the feel of his strong arm slinking around your torso. “I wanna do it today,” he hums, baby-blue eyes fixated on your hair (and where the fuck to begin). Squinting, Budd takes a little handful of your locks and runs the brush through it, gentle as can be. You can’t stop a smile from dancing on your lips; if you saw the guy in the street you’d never guess how soft he was capable of being. And nobody ever _did _get to see that side of him... except **you** (and Bill, I suppose, but that was in a different way, of course). You were special to him.

His breathing had turned slower, deeper, heartbeat gently thumping against your back. It’s soothing, comforting. After a couple of minutes, you break the (comfortable) silence, “How’s it looking?” Spoken softly to suit the haziness of the trailer-- in the late mornings of summer, it always had a warm, golden look about it. No need to yell or be loud; it was _just_.

“Pretty.”

By his tone, you could tell he was still deep in concentration. Hell, it would have been a miracle if he’d have even registered what you’d said. But you didn’t mind; that was your Budd. Just how he was. Smiling softly, you let the silence fall once again, and he continues to brush out your curls.

A few minutes pass and Budd gives your left breast a subtle squeeze, “It’s done, sweetheart.”

Your eyes must have fluttered closed while he was at work-- it _was_ relaxing as fuck. Like how a cat must feel when it’s getting the fuss it desires. “Mm, show me,” you say, and he hands you the mirror, gauging your reaction.

A big, cutesy grin appears on your lips as you cup your curls and fluff your hair up, “Budd!”

His face drops. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, it’s pretty,” you sigh, turning your head to press a loving kiss to his lips, his stubble grazing your skin. “It’s super pretty... you should be a hairstylist.”


End file.
